


Give It Up, Give It Up

by anoneknewmoose



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy
Genre: CBT, Gen, Kinky, Kinky Gen, Podfic Welcome, Riding Crop, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-09
Updated: 2011-07-09
Packaged: 2017-10-21 04:36:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoneknewmoose/pseuds/anoneknewmoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sore bottoms and sound minds, a bro story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give It Up, Give It Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inlovewithnight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/gifts).



> some AU elements; title from the Midtown song. For inlovewithnight, who won me at helpthesouth. All my love to cool_rain_kiss for the rockin' beta and summary that she didn't think I'd use. ♥

That itch under Pete's skin is back, irritating and prickly and driving him fucking nuts.

"You should really get that looked at," Gabe says, lazy and cocky even over the phone.

"Fuck you, man," Pete says. He squints harder at Travelocity and makes a face at how fucking expensive a flight to New York is these days.

"Pretty sure that's not what you're flying out here for, Petey." Even though Gabe's eating something and sounds crunchy and stupid, the promise in Gabe's voice makes Pete's dick twitch. Fuck.

"Yeah, well. We'll see," Pete says. It's lame and they both know it. Gabe just laughs and hangs up on him.

Pete curses under his breath and gives in, clicking on the first flight out to New York in the morning. What else are credit cards for?

***

Not that, of course, they go to Gabe's apartment first thing. Of fucking course not. They have to go visit Cobra's "studio," a shitty room in a shitty basement down a dank staircase that smells like piss, so Pete can listen to demos that they could have just e-mailed him. Gabe's a fucker about it, hamming it up and going on and on about what the message in this song is today. Pete's fingers twitch but he smiles and makes nice. The last thing he needs to do when Gabe's in this mood is piss him off by insulting his band.

He considers revising that policy when Gabe loudly pronounces that they're all going for enchiladas at his favorite hole-in-the-wall bar, though. That means beer and tequila shots and avoiding telling everyone there why neither of them are boozing it up.

The food is really good, though, and Pete feels a little better after eating. Gabe grins and kisses his hair, touselling it in that irritating smug way that tells Pete that this was Gabe's plan all along. Fucker.

When Gabe's plate is clean he raises an eyebrow at Pete, even though everyone else just ordered another round. _Finally_.

"Alright, assholes, I got up at 3am to fly out here--" Pete starts.

Vicky-t snorts and rolls her eyes at him. "More like you haven't slept since yesterday, you mean."

"Whatever," Pete says. He flashes her a grin and his middle finger. "The _point_ is that Gabanti's the only one of you fuckers with a guest room."

"Peace, bitches," Gabe butts in. He drops a twenty on the table and rests a hand on Pete's shoulder to guide him out. Pete's shirt is thin and no protection at all when Gabe squeezes, hard enough that Pete half hopes he's bruising bone.

Pete doesn't wince or pull away. He just ruffles Nate's hair with a joke about how he's the only one short enough to fuck with and leads Gabe out the door.

***

Pete ends up on his elbows and knees in the center of Gabe's bed. He's naked, sweating just a little because Gabe's too cheap to run the A/C low.

The making out has something to do with the sweat, too. It has a _lot_ to do with Pete's cock hanging hard and heavy between his thighs.

The rest of that is because Gabe is dragging the riding crop down his spine.

The crop is well broken in. Pete's blindfolded, but he knows it well: oxblood red leather, butter soft now after years of use and regular oiling. Kink gear is one of the few places that Gabe's snobbery trumps his veganism and he compromises by taking care of his toys, making them last as long as possible. This one has a nice broad flat head, leather folded over on itself for more sound, delivering dull thwaps with a side of sting.

That ratio inverses once Gabe gets warmed up, though. Pete shivers just thinking about it.

Gabe's speaking Spanish. Sometimes Pete picks out words he knows, but mostly it's a low, calm background sound. White noise that comforts instead of buzzing static that agitates. He runs the crop all over Pete's body, reintroducing them, warming the leather up so it's supple. His voice goes into a questioning lilt as he twists the crop, catching Pete's nipple rings with the open side and tugging. Pete hisses and tries to stay still but his nipples are fucking sensitive these days and Gabe _knows_ that.

"Fuck, fucking fucker." Pete finally breaks, arching away from the crop. Gabe knows him as well as Pete knows himself now, though, and he moves the crop with him. Pete whines and shudders, but Gabe just laughs at him.

"C'mon, Pete."

Pete sucks in a sharp breath and squeezes his eyes shut tight. The pull and fear of things tearing isn't anything compared to what's coming, he knows. It still takes Gabe yanking again with the crop before Pete lets the air in his chest go in one big whoosh. His body sags down low between his shoulders. Gabe purrs, "There we are."

Pete smiles to himself and rolls his head, then his shoulders. He feels all tingly, stomach tight in anticipation. The crop disappears and he hears quiet shushing of Gabe's stockinged feet on the carpet as he walks around the bed. Pete carefully braces himself: arms and legs relaxed, pelvis rolled in, stomach held strong to keep him in place. He keeps breathing, the deep therapeutic breaths people with letters after their names are forever trying to get him to do. He can only do it here, in this space with Gabe in any of half a dozen apartments and hotel rooms over the years. Pete can't tell if his eyes are shut or open, with the thick darkness of the blindfold surrounding. It anchors him in his body and lets him concentrate on sinking his weight down evenly over his shins.

Gabe takes a deep breath.

 _Pete_ takes a deep breath.

There's a whistle, that wholly unique sound of leather cutting through air, slicing molecules apart.

Pete's skin ignites, bright and sharp and all-consuming because Gabe doesn't stop. He starts high on Pete's left ass cheek and works the crop in a careful pattern, each mark on the edge of its brothers. Pete knows he's making noises. Gabe probably is too but all Pete can really process is the _whine, smack, whine, smack_ of each stroke.

It hurts, of course it hurts, like a _motherfucker_. Each strike sends flares up behind Pete's eyes, beautiful sunbursts in orangey-reds. The pain makes him gasp. He's panting, trying to catch his breath through the utter mindfuck of how much he loves this.

They fade into a dull throbbing ache as Gabe moves on, switching to Pete's other ass cheek. His right's always more sensitive and Pete squirms, mewling. Gabe doesn't let up or interrupt his rhythm until he's finished and Pete's ass is striped to his satisfaction. He pauses for a moment then, squeezes Pete's shoulder and runs a firm hand down his back. "Breathe, bro."

"Uh huh," Pete says. Words are hard, fuck, his tongue feels too thick and his throat is already getting scratchy. He blinks behind fabric, unsurprised to realize that he's tearing up. He swallows and rubs his face against his forearms before he sets himself up and nods.

Gabe's hand leaves his back and there's a moment of stillness, where Pete imagines the world's frozen around them, though he knows Gabe's just rubbing his arm where it's starting to get sore.

"Here we go," Gabe says, in a fucking Mario voice, what the fuck.

"The fuck?" Pete laughs and the crop catches him by surprise, making him shout and jerk. Gabe snickers and keeps hitting him, moving down the back of Pete's thigh in turn, just as careful and steady as before.

Pete groans and digs his fingers into the sheets. It's _different_ on his thighs, more sting and less thwap, more yellow in his head. He's sweating enough now that it's dripping down his skin, leaving trails that chill suddenly when the crop swings past them and heat rapidly as blood rushes to the surface of his skin. By the time Gabe finally reaches just above the back of Pete's knees and stops, Pete feels like he's burning up from waist to knees.

Gabe lays the crop carefully in the crux of Pete's knees and runs a hand up each leg. His touch is light, judging how hot and swollen Pete is already, and he grunts. "That'll do, pig."

"God, fuck off," Pete groans. He buries his face in his folded arms and tries to breathe and inventory. If he fucks this part up, Gabe really _will_ beat the shit out of him, but he still _itches_ under the fire in his skin. "No. More."

"Huh," Gabe grunts. He pokes the crop at Pete's hip and Pete rolls onto his back. Gabe's got good sheets, the expensive shit, but even those rub the wrong way at Pete's ass and thighs and make him hiss. Gabe ignores that and adds, "Cover up."

Pete obliges, pulling his balls up over his cock and lacing his fingers over them. Gabe cares more about that than he does, to be honest, but Pete supposes it's his job to take care of his bottom anyway. He doesn't complain.

The crop starts again at the knot of muscle tying into the top of his knee. Gabe's lighter on the front but only relatively; it doesn't feel like it, though, since the skin's so much more tender. Gabe has to be more careful here and the blows are a little more irregular but that just makes it more exciting, gives it a little more edge. He goes right to the top of Pete's thighs, until Pete can feel the crop flying past his fingers. Pete's chest heaves as he tries to breathe through the shock of pain on top grinding him down into pain on bottom, his whole lower body pounding with blood and adrenaline and endorphins.

He's going to be so fucking bruised all over.

Then the crop skips over his arms, slapping almost playfully at the top of his belly and his chest and his nipples. Pete can't help jerking and writhing then, pierced flesh so sensitized from earlier.

"That's what I thought, _cabrón_." It's an old insult, as loving as Gabe Saporta gets while holding an implement. Pete laughs and ignores how shakey it is.

"Yeah, yeah, fuck you, dick." All of the strikes and Gabe's voice are coming from Pete's right. He turns that way and smiles, his best big, lazy, toothy grin. He feels awesome, so close to scratching that elusive itch and making his brain shut up for a change. _So_ close.

He very slowly, very carefully, unlaces his fingers and arranges his cock on his balls. He's only half hard now--too much sensation, too much blood needed elsewhere--but that won't matter.

"Well, shit," Gabe drawls. The crop drags down Pete's stomach. Pete could almost believe it was made of lead, as much as it seems to catch and dig into his gut. Gabe skirts his cock, down one side and over his balls and up the other side. "Really now?"

The raw edges of the crop catch on hairs, little pinpricks that tickle. Pete has to bite his lip before he giggles. He feels fucking high, but not cloudy at all. Everything's crystalline clear and the world is his for the taking and he nods quickly. "Yeah, man, fuck yeah."

The first slap of leather against his cock makes Pete's brain scream; the second slap, he can't hold it in any more, and he really doesn't care what Gabe's neighbors think. It _hurts_ , brilliant white-hot slicing through him, leaving the dull roar of the rest of his body miles behind. He grabs at the sheets to stop his (dumbass) instinct to protect his most vulnerable part.

All Pete can hear, finally, is nothing.

He has no idea how long it's been when his body's moving entirely without his permission. His brain is a few seconds behind, thinking, _wait what the fuck we're not done_ even as his body curling up tight on its side.

There's a beat, a moment where Pete is absolutely alone in his head, and then Gabe is curled up right behind him.

"Hey, hey, brother, you done good." Gabe's fingers rub over Pete's shoulders first, bringing him back from teetering on the edge before he unties the blindfold.

Pete shivers all down his body and opens his eyes slowly, blinking through tears. Right. Gabe's bedroom. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly in time with Gabe's hand running down his back. Better. He can feel where his body ends and the rest of the world begins, now.

"Fuckin gorgeous, Pete, fuck," Gabe's saying. Pete makes a contented little noise and uncoils, carefully staying on his side. Gabe's still murmuring, all _good boy_ and _so pretty_ and _love seeing you like this_ while he wipes a damp rag over Pete's cheeks. Pete lets it wash over him while he cries it out.

Once Pete's stopped crying and is breathing like a normal human being, Gabe kisses his forehead and grabs a jar off the nightstand. Pete snorts, amused; he still can't believe that Gabe uses something called Udder Cream for this. He really doesn't want to know where Gabe bought that, or found out about it. It fucking works, so whatever.

Gabe rubs him down all over, comforting without arousing even when he's got slick cream on Pete's cock. Pete sighs, watching him. "Magic, Gabanti, I swear to God."

"Cobra," Gabe tells him, all mock-serious and laughing when Pete kicks out at him half heartedly. He squeezes Pete's ankle and pushes himself off the bed. The mattress rolls and Pete moves with it, hugging a pillow to his front.

Victoria may or may not have been right about how long it's been since Pete slept.

***

Pete doesn't wake up until the next morning, in fact, when his bladder finally drags him out of bed. He pisses and follows his nose toward the kitchen, but there's a full length mirror in the foyer. Pete stops and kicks off his boxers, craning his head over his back to check out the bruises. Fucking gorgeous. Shit, Gabe's good.

Pete turns and Gabe is smirking at him from the table. "Well good morning, princess."

"Yeah, well." Pete shrugs and grins. He hasn't slept that well in _weeks_. He's not going to feel bad for leaving Gabe to his own devices for an evening, and Gabe's the one that has the mirror there anyway.

The table is loaded down with waffles and orange juice and coffee and bacon. Real actual pork bacon because Gabe loves him and wants him to be happy. Gabe's also set out his regular meds and some Advil. Pete swallows them down with juice and pulls out his chair that...has a donut pillow, dammit.

"You ass," Pete says, flipping him off.

"Nothing but the best for Princess Pete," Gabe laughs, because Gabe is also a dick. So Pete does _not_ say thank you for it, no matter how much he needs the stupid thing.

"You're an asshole. Why do I come here?" Pete makes a face and shifts his weight gingerly before he reaches for the syrup and food.

"Cause I treat you so good, baby." To prove it Gabe even pours him coffee and adds enough sugar to rot stone, just the way Pete likes it. Fucker.

"I hate you," Pete says, and stuffs his mouth with syrupy bacony waffle goodness. He's _starved_.

***

One of Pete's favorite parts of visiting Gabe is the shower afterwards. It almost reminds him of the showers after a long soccer practice, hot water pounding into tense muscles, unrelenting and leaving Pete no choice but to relax.

Today he's already relaxed, after the beating and the sleep, but he's still aching. The water's hitting the bruises on top of the sore muscles, as hot as he can stand, and it's so fucking good. Pete moans and his hand goes straight to his cock, full and thick now. He was sporting wood as soon as Gabe left for the studio and Pete left the table.

Routine is awesome. Pete really ought to remember that more often.

He braces his forearm against the tile and rests his forehead on it. The constant thrumming of water on his skin and the tub makes it impossible for him to take his time. He jerks off fast, cursing under his breath, and when his orgasm hits it feels like a punch to the kidney.

He sinks to his knees and curls up against the edge of the tub. The steam's thick enough that makes him lightheaded and gaspy for a few minutes until he acclimates.

Pete's head is quiet and happy, his body as close to lassitude as it ever gets. He washes with Gabe's shampoo and soaps, pulls on cut-off drawstring sweats out of the top drawer, and crawls back into bed.

Gabe's hidden his iPhone somewhere. Pete doesn't give a fuck. He'll get it back later, after he takes a little nap.


End file.
